by Alex Dylan
“So, ye’ll deliver my message to Middlemore at Carlisle and see what account he has to give for himself. You think he’ll refuse?” James questioned.
Mark A’Court nodded, “Most certainly Highness. He’ll find some way to wriggle out of it.”
James rubbed his hands gleefully, “Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. Either way, Mark, ye’ll take the men, ye’ll make the Borders kneel. I am the lawful king. Whether they love me or nae, they’ll obey me. Whistle up the dogs, Mark. The hawk is hunting and so will I.”
High on a hilltop others also watched the hawk in its freewheeling span. The fields and backways of Naward’s Black Woods stretched out below in a dark patchwork across the border, the deep earth smelling of freshly turned soil and wet bark slowly drying. A crown of oak trees with newly green leaves hid the tangled paths. Through a break in the trees, there was a brief glint of reflected sun, the flutter of a dark cloak. In the distance, faint and distant but growing stronger, the baying of the hounds.
Shadowy figures snaked through the trees. They were dressed in greenwood colours, the ragged garb of petty thievery, but betrayed themselves by the way they moved; too arrogant and lacking the stealth of someone trying to snare coneys.
The screech of the hawk drew their attention up once more. Perched high above on the wind, it twisted and turned away, angry that it had missed the opportunity for a kill. There was a flash of movement lower down the slope as a stag broke cover.
Further down, men at the foot of the slope also heard the commotion and looked up. They saw the stag bounding towards them and heard the noise of pursuing horse crashing through behind. The thieves ran through the woods to the right, where they could just make out the tree margins by the break of light onto open grass. The stag overtook them and burst into the open before them. Hunting hounds and a party of horse appeared, skirting the trees at full canter. The hounds snapped at the ankles of the stag, which kicked out desperately. Down it fell, and the hounds were upon it.
The pursuing hunters barrelled into the two running men. One horse tried to pull up to avoid them, the rider yanking the reins sideways. The horse obligingly toppled and the rider was thrown. All was confusion as grim men rushed to encircle their fallen companion.
James had hit the ground hard and cradled his left arm painfully. When Mark A’Court had pushed tentative fingers along the collar bone, the king yelped in pain. It was clearly broken. Even so he insisted on limping over to his beloved dogs. The stag was newly dead, its throat ripped out. James drew his hunting knife and gleefully slit open the stag’s belly to gralloch it. Its warm entrails slithered out with a whoosh of hot blood and steam. The dogs went berserk. James pulled off a glove to push his good hand deep into the carcass, then withdrew his arm, dripping with gore to the elbow. Laughing, he daubed it over the faces of the men nearest to him and petted the snarling hounds. Only then did he permit someone to bind his injury for him.
The two rapscallions had been cuffed to a kneeling position. Howard was furious with them. “Thieving bastards!” he shouted. “Poaching the king’s venison is a hanging offence.”
The men cowered and pleaded that they were not after deer, only rabbits. Two soldiers rifled through the men’s meagre possessions, laying them out onto the grass in front of them. There was an assortment of knives, two shepherd’s slings and a small mound of lead bullets – the flattened oval projectiles for use in the sling. Howard picked one up. ‘Ouch’ was cut into the side of it. He picked up another. It said ‘hit my mark’. He picked up a third. It said ‘Goliath’ on it. Howard paused. He called a guard over to him and in a hushed exchange of words, asked the guard if he could identify the men as locals. The guard frowned and gave a cursory glance before shaking his head.
Mark A’Court was keeping a sly eye on the proceedings. He eased himself closer to Howard and asked, “Is something amiss?”
Howard felt the ice in his words. The king, who was his guest, had been injured on a hunt that he had suggested and organised. At the very least, Mark A’Court would be wondering whether Howard was incompetent or treasonous. Trails of sweat trickled down Howard’s spine, yet he was cold in spite of the heat of the chase. He didn’t bother to wipe the sweat beading on his brow. He figured he would be lucky to keep his head at all, unless he could do some quick reasoning and rapid talking.
And then there was the matter of the two men who had so inconveniently blundered into them. They were strangers to him but could yet hang him. Howard kicked out at one of them, knocking the man to the ground and cursed them as rebels for bringing the fight to his own door.
Mark A’Court chose that exact moment to ask, “What are the markings on these?”
Howard turned to see Mark toeing the bullets on the ground, peering at them with a courtier’s lofty height. Howard scooped them up into the concealment of his fist.
“Nothing,” he said gruffly, “just the crude weapons of undisciplined men.”
“Indeed,” said Mark, injecting the syllables with disbelief. “I wonder how much discipline it took to train the horse to collapse to the rein signal. That’s a reiver trick, is it not?”
Howard grunted. He didn’t trust himself to parry words.
“Take them.” He barked orders at the guards. Then turning to Mark, he said, “I should have thought you would have more concern for the person of His Majesty, rather than the trickery of reivers.”
“Indeed,” repeated Mark. “Unless of course, both concerns are in fact one and the same,” he added cunningly. “What will happen to them?”
“They can expect the same justice I mete out to all Armstrongs,” said Howard bitterly.
“Armstrongs?” queried Mark. “You can be that certain they are Scots?”
Howard nodded curtly. “They aren’t local men. No one knows them. Even the English acknowledge their own villains,” he challenged.
“If they can recognise them,” offered Mark smoothly. Howard heard the veiled threat.
“I hide nothing,” he said crossly. “I am who I am. Here in the Borders, we own our names and own true to ourselves. I have never denied that I am a Catholic, but I am also His Majesty’s loyal subject.”
Mark flipped him warningly across the thighs with his riding gauntlets, “I am well aware that His Highness has seen fit to reward your family for your loyalty across the years not just to him, but to his mother. However, you would do well to remember that whilst James may tolerate Catholics, he won’t tolerate Catholicism. Make sure you are clear as to the difference. His Highness certainly is.”
Howard bowed briefly but not humbly and watched as Mark sauntered away to check on the king. He cursed to himself. He needed to suppress any rumours that this was anything other than an unfortunate accident quickly or the repercussions would catch him out. He prayed that Mark A’Court would have no reason to doubt him and would not pursue his own enquiries.
The hunting party moved on. The hapless poachers were in the custody of Howard’s guards, who had gagged them. They weren’t permitted to defend themselves against accusation. The other riders mounted up and rode away, taking the deer carcass with them.
Mark A’Court was pensive by the time the party returned to Naward. He worried the large ring he wore on his thumb, turning it over and over thoughtfully. Something about the glibness of Howard’s answer nagged at him. Mark understood his host’s nervousness. Howard was wondering whether the men were assassins. He debated whether to share his suspicions with the king but decided against it. James was customarily timorous in the presence of strangers. The threat of yet another Catholic-inspired plot could easily tip him over the edge. Mark preferred the detached control of the Stewart schemer. Besides, Mark wasn’t certain of Howard’s involvement, and the king was genuinely grateful to the family. Mark didn’t want to be the accuser who brought down yet another royal favourite. The king would neither forgive nor forget, especially after his emotional reminiscences earlier in the day.
Mark’s thoughts turned
to Melisande. He hadn’t met her in the days of Esme Stewart but knew that she had been connected with the French Court and had travelled to Scotland as part of the retinue. After Esme’s banishment, she had been bartered away to Walter Middlemore in exchange for peaceable border relationships. Mark smiled; from what James had said, he doubted very much that Walter had found any sort of peace in marriage. Melisande’s personal history meant she had little love for Catholicism and was therefore an unlikely conspirator for someone like Howard, but in any case, Mark had always considered that the bigger threat by far would come from Spain or Ireland, either singly or together.
Carlisle enjoyed a quirky geography, sat astride the Borders but looking over its shoulder to Europe. It was wild here in the west and the men had big ideas. Ideas they nurtured through generations of conquest and invasion. The border spirit was indomitable. Walls, wars, kings or emperors, none could master or contain the anarchy of the fells. James had charged him with bringing law and order to the very place which gave definition to the word ‘lawless’. Mark knew he would have a fight on his hands. He crossed to the Royal Apartments to speak with the king.
James reclined on soft cushions. His padded doublet and breeches looked enormous, splayed out and making his movement more clumsy than usual. The king had one arm in a sling; he hadn’t bothered to change his clothing or wash and his hand was still sticky with the stag’s blood. Mark winced with distaste. James rarely washed, only ever dabbling the royal fingers in water, whereas Mark himself was fastidiously clean. James was popping sweetmeats into his mouth and swilling them down with plentiful quantities of Morillon wine. Mark thought uncharitably that Carlisle should count itself very fortunate not to have to dine with the king. Perhaps the northerners wouldn’t notice. They were as coarse as the Scottish nobles. Rough men, rough ways. Manners were a by-product of civilisation. Who here would have any use for them?
James waved him to a seat and spoke insistently through a mouthful of food, spilling half-chewed debris over his beard and chin.
“Where are the prisoners, Mark? I want to question them. I should very much like to know who caused them to harry us. I should like to know if there is a witch at work or are they simple villains.”
“Good men gone bad or just bad men, what difference does it make, Highness?” Mark asked.
“It makes a deal of difference to me,” replied the king. “In as far as I am the Lord’s anointed and rightful king, I need to ensure mastery of my realm. I will fight the physical fight with righteous sword and bloody death to my enemies. But I must have my subjects’ complete obedience and that includes their spiritual observance too. I need to know who I am dealing with, on all counts, Mark.” The king paused in his eating and looked shrewdly at Mark. “If I can unite secular and spiritual powers, Mark, I need a man of authority who will fight the good fight for me, a Constable of the Realm, as it were.”
Mark bowed his head, “I am Your Highness’s humble servant.”
He called a page to him with a request to find Howard and summon him to the king’s presence. The king shifted his position and winced at the pain in his shoulder.
“Truce Day or nae, I canna go to Carlisle now, even if I were minded too. I dinnae think I can ride like this.”
Mark reacted promptly. “Highness, normally we would have taken a direct route south to York. However, in light of developments, I think it would be best if Your Highness went by carriage to Newcastle instead.”
James had opened his mouth to argue that he didn’t want to go to Newcastle, before realising that he could work the situation to his advantage. He now had the perfect excuse to ask Cecil to meet him earlier with a state coach and some new clothes. He nodded his agreement. Funds were running low, and he wanted to enter the second largest city of England in appropriate style. Without Cecil’s cooperation, there would be no royal largesse. James was astutely aware that gold, and large quantities of it, would help to smooth a path for him.
“And one more thing, sire,” Mark added, “May we agree that this plan is to be kept between the two of us?”
James sat bolt upright. He patted himself all over, checking he was secure. The additional layers were a vanity to enhance his musculature but had the added advantage of protection against an assassin’s attack. Mark’s words had him jumping in panic like a bloated tick on a griddle.
“Fie, fie, Mark. Did I not say there was villainy here? Is it Howard? Is it the Jesuits?”
Mark was alarmed at James’s reaction. He didn’t want him to panic and start calling out. He rushed to soothe his fears by appealing to James’s love of intrigue.
“Why don’t you question him yourself, when he comes?”
James twiddled his beard with grubby fingers and smiled nastily, “Aye,” he said.
William Howard was unaccustomed to having to give an account of himself. His mood swung rapidly between indignation and mortification with every stride he took towards the king’s apartments. James didn’t worry him; he felt secure in his understanding. Mark A’Court however was too shadowy for Howard’s liking. He reminded him of a big pike that lurked in the fishponds. He chided himself to be on guard.
He was admitted immediately. James came directly to the point.
“I would speak with the captives,” he said.
Howard frowned. “Your Majesty has no need to concern himself with petty villains,” he said airily. “The matter is already dealt with.”
“In what way?” asked Mark A’Court.
Howard took offence at his tone.
“In the only way that befits a lord who wishes to control his estates: they have been hanged.” He drew himself up defiantly, “I have an oak tree that I keep especially for the joy of hanging Armstrongs. The two today takes the tally to sixty-two this year.”
James let out a sigh. “Oh that is a disappointment.”
Mark’s response was thoughtfully phrased. “I thought that English law required a trial before execution?”
He saw high spots of colour rise in Howard’s cheeks and continued seamlessly, “But of course, I am no expert in the legal niceties of the Leges Marchiarum, the Marches Law.” He bowed deferentially to Howard.
“English law requires a man to be tried before he is hanged, yes true,” said Howard. “Here in the Marches, there are particular powers for dealing with the reivers, dispensations for Marches treason. There are special arrangements between the lords of the Marches on both sides of the border, as Your Majesty must know,” he said drawing James into the conversation.
James nodded sagaciously. “True, true. But when there is no border, only one country joined under one king, as England and Scotland must be, whit do ye say shall be the law then?”
Howard frowned before questioning, “Majesty, there must surely be English law on English soil?”
He saw Mark raise his eyebrows barely perceptibly and wondered what sort of trap was being baited for him. Fear grabbed him in a dry-throated clutch. He barely found enough spittle to say, “The king’s law must cover the whole of the country, surely?”
Mark exhaled slowly and gave Howard a sidelong appraising look for his diplomatic answer. “Exactly so,” said James patronisingly, the schoolmaster praising the apt pupil.
Howard bowed, relieved to be excused and backed out of the door.
James waited until he had gone and turned to Mark in controlled anger.
“Cut it down. Cut the damn tree down and burn it. I’ll have no man tell me who may or may not be hanged.” James saw hesitation on Mark’s face and became mutinous, “What? You defy your king?”
Mark shook his head, “Never, Highness. But a good oak takes a long while to grow, may lay down the keel for a fine ship for Your Highness’s Navy, and provide the timbers of a comfortable house…”
“Pish!” interrupted James. “Next you’ll be counselling your king to climb up into it and find a safe roost with the crows! Hold your tongue and do as you’re told. I want it felled afore we leave for Newcastle. If
there’s aye hanging to be done for nimming, I’ll be the one to decide.”
Chapter 11: The Devil’s in the Detail
Carlisle Castle
As dusk began to fall, final preparations were put into place for the May Eve’s festivities. While Heughan sought the services of a barber, Hamish sidled off behind the West Tower, muttering something vague concerning collecting on a debt. When neither had returned, Willie tired of waiting and decided to make some new friends. He joined a group of likely lads lounging by a brazier in the hopes of persuading them to a game of dice, thereby lightening their pockets.
Returning on his own to the Castle, Heughan found the herb gardens by accidental necessity. Rodrigues had pestered him to remember to bring the traditional May Day flowers for the hostess; a nosegay or sweet-smelling posy. Heughan had forgotten the minor detail. He vaguely recalled something that Rodrigues had said about a white flower being Melisande’s favourite. He glanced around in a quandary; there were about twenty different white ones that he could see. He risked a sniff at a promising green bush with tiny white flowers, only to have a somnolent bumble bee buzz up his nose. He stepped back, crushing a handful of leaves. They released a sharp, woody scent that curled languidly into corners of his mind, quietly overpowering in the way that peat smoke on a damp day choked a room. It was a homely smell.
Why did Rodrigues want him to be bothered with such petty gestures? He pulled off a few woody sprigs. He turned on his heel to leave, remembered Rodrigues’s insistence and turned back again with a harrumph of disgust. Angry snatching, stalks breaking, shaking to dislodge further lurking insects, before binding the stems with a piece of grass, shaking his head at his foolishness. It was all a waste of his time.
Making his way back across the courtyard to the Ward Stables, he spotted a familiar figure crossing from the opposite direction. Heughan waited until they had both made the shelter of the low building before he stole up behind Lettice, grabbing her quickly from behind, reiver-style. He whirled her around to him and her wide-eyed shock softened. She kissed him hard.